Scenarios in Scribbles
by W. Y. Traveller
Summary: One-shots and scribbles for those rainy days; some in response to prompts and suggestions. Chapter 04: Those rooftop chases are such dangerous things … a serious-but-funny moment in John's life that is seriously not funny … Dedicated to all the lovely ladies in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen for their kind welcome.
1. Machines Maketh the Man

_A/N: One-shots and scribbles for those rainy days; some in response to prompts and suggestions._

_Chapter 01: Prompt: John is having a bad day and self-checkout machines are not for everyone … inspired by one very observing comedian._

_Sherlock © ACD and BBC_

* * *

**Machines Maketh the Man**

* * *

"_Please place your first item on the scanner …"_

The voice was beginning to grate on John's nerves. Slightly higher than a female-toned Sat-Nav, it spoke with a condescending lilt, telling him for the umpteenth time to scan the uncooperative bag of sprouts in his hand.

He ran the barcode carefully along the scanning strip, consciously aware of the self-checkout staff member hovering somewhere near his right shoulder, practically poised in a ready-to-assist position. _They live for these moments_, John thought, somewhat peevishly. _He's just waiting for me to fail_.

"_Please place your first item on the scanner …"_

John ran the sprouts through again.

"_Please place your first item on the scanner …"_

The member of staff had shuffled closer; the swipe-card which hung from the bright green ribbon around his neck clutched between eager fingers. His encouraging, seemingly-smug smile did nothing to dissipate John's growing annoyance.

John breathed out a whispered curse and punched in the barcode manually.

"_Please place your first item on the scanner …"_

"Oh come _on_," John hissed. He turned slightly as the store assistant drew closer, the _can-I-help-you?_ faux smile locked into place.

"Problem, sir?" the young employee said, a tad too hopefully.

"No," John replied firmly. "No problem. I just–"

"_Please place your first item on the scanner …"_

"For the love of … I haven't done anything!" John retorted, his head snapping back around to glare at the self-checkout screen. The protest earned him several stares from the people using the neighbouring machines and those queuing behind, and the employee took a hasty step back.

"Now, sir–"

"_Please place your first item on the–"_

John slammed the sprouts into the scanner; then for good measure repeated the action. The machine jolted with the force. The screen flickered; the voice jumped and then faded into blissful nothingness.

John closed his eyes and breathed deeply. When he opened them again every customer and employee within close proximity was staring at him, their expressions a mixture of bemusement, sympathy and surprise. The young assistant by his side impressively brushed the shock off first; he cleared his throat as he turned to John, chest puffed out as far as it would go, all business.

"Sir, I must ask you to–"

John had already gone, the automatic door closing behind him with a definitive _swish_.

"_Sprouts,"_ the checkout machine declared happily to no one in particular.

~o~

Back in Baker Street, Sherlock was sat comfortably in his armchair, fingers pressed and staring into an un-lit fireplace. He turned as John entered, eyes flicking briefly to the empty hands before resting on the doctor's face.

John sighed and sunk wearily into the opposite chair. He ran a hand over his face and met Sherlock's gaze. "I can't go back to that Asda."

Sherlock said nothing; one eyebrow quirked questioningly.

John glared at him. "Shut _up_."

~o~

**End**

~o~

* * *

_A/N II:_ _This idea came from John's argument with the self-checkout service during 'The Blind Banker' and comedian Lee Evans' brilliant observation of those condescending machines in his 'XL Tour'. If you wish to see it, type in 'Lee Evans Self Checkout' in Google and click on the first link. Not the best quality, however forty seconds of YouTube footage worth watching._

_I for one cannot abide those self-checkout services … only because the machines don't like me. They sense distrust, I believe._


	2. Of All the Nerve

_A/N: Thank you everyone for your kind reviews. They are truly appreciated. If you are happy reading my scribbles then I in turn am delighted. _:-)

_Chapter 02: A bored Sherlock tests a supposedly-unlikely theory on John … This was a sudden light-bulb idea last night, so I quickly jotted it down. It's what I get for watching ST: TOS before bedtime._

_Sherlock © ACD and BBC_

* * *

**Off All the Nerve**

* * *

"John, you're a doctor."

John lifted his head from where it lay cupped in his hand and eyed Sherlock suspiciously. "I'm always impressed with your deductions, but stating the obvious takes some of the spark away. Don't tell me the great Sherlock Holmes is losing his edge?"

Sherlock ignored the jab and gestured to the television. "Do you approve the possibility of a nerve pinch?"

John stared at him, puzzled. "What?"

"This so-called nerve pinch … would you say it is medically accurate?"

John's gaze flickered to the TV for a moment before coming back to Sherlock. "You know, I put this DVD in because it's fictional, and hoped you'd sit there quietly so we – or more importantly, _I_ – could watch it in peace."

Sherlock sniffed disapprovingly. "I don't require DVDs to pass the time. That being said, if you insist on watching a sci-fi it is bound to raise questions."

"Sci-fi is preferable to your shouting at _Heartbeat _and _Miss Marple_ episodes [1]. Not everyone wants to know _who dun' it_ before the person has actually _done it_."

Sherlock shot him an impatient look. "They would if they had even an ounce of deductive capability. Now, are you going to answer my question?"

John sighed. "No, Sherlock, a so-called nerve pinch is not possible."

"Yet the gentleman on screen has done it."

"Not quite hard evidence."

"He seems intelligent."

"He's not real."

"Does the same principle not stand?"

John gazed at Sherlock despairingly. "For someone who lives his life based on _facts_, why are you arguing a fictional ability?"

"I am not arguing it, merely questioning your reasoning."

"That's a fancy way of _arguing_," John retorted.

Sherlock waved away the doctor's irritation and continued. "You say this nerve pinch is not possible … although here is a man–"

"Vulcan."

"–_male_ nonetheless, capable of rendering a person unconscious by pinching a trigger-point between the shoulder and neck. It gives the impression that this can be achieved if one locates the right nerve correctly."

"You can't just pinch someone into unconsciousness."

"Have you tried it?" Sherlock asked.

"No, because it's not _medically accurate_," John replied, emphasising Sherlock's previous words. "It may be possible if you applied extreme force to the area, but you can't do that with your fingertips. Now, either you shut up and let me watch this, or I put on an omnibus of _Coronation Street_ [2]."

The subtle threat was enough to silence his companion, and John managed to get through the remaining episodes in peace.

As the final credits rolled John crouched down to reach the DVD player. Instantly he felt cool fingers pressing at the base of his neck, just shy of his right shoulder. He turned to Sherlock, one sceptical eyebrow arched. "Seriously?"

Sherlock frowned, clearly perplexed. "Odd. After observing the action carefully it seemed plausible–"

The tray whirred open and John turned back to remove the disc, groaning softly, "Sometimes I despair, Sherlock, I really d–"

Fingers squeezed; the doctor's head hit the floor and there he stayed, motionless.

"… Fascinating," Sherlock murmured.

~o~

_**End**_

~o~

* * *

_A/N II: [1] Crime dramas; [2] TV soap._


	3. Out of the Frying Pan

_A/N: Not sure what prompted this idea. I was on lunch at work, calmly eating a sandwich when I suddenly straightened up like a meerkat and furiously wrote this out … oh, how the mind works!_

_Chapter 03: Sherlock and frying pans do not go together, even outside of cooking practicalities, and John returns home one night to an unexpected surprise … Rating amended to T to be safe due to minor alcohol usage._

_Sherlock © ACD and BBC_

* * *

**Out of the Frying Pan**

* * *

John Watson was not drunk.

He was chipper, content and decisively merry, but he was _not_ drunk. Being drunk was for … well, drunk people.

He stepped out into the cool London-night air, away from the raucous cries of the men in all their pub-soaked-glory, and allowed the breeze to rouse him from his 'merry' state. Lestrade fell into place beside him, eyes shining; cheeks and nose flushed red beneath the dim glow of the streetlamps.

"You're drunk," John stated.

"Yup," Lestrade agreed happily, nudging John's shoulder with his own. "So are you."

John shook his head. "No … I'm merry."

Lestrade snorted. "Sure." He squinted at his watch and turned back to the pub entrance. His bellow of, "Time, gentleman; _time_!" earned him a mixture of protests and shouts of agreements from his colleagues [1]. Lestrade's drunken-voice rang surprisingly clear as he called an end to his birthday celebration and announced he was going home. Lestrade smiled at John; the expression quickly wiped when a single voice rang out into the street.

"Lightweight!"

Lestrade spun around, glaring at the many faces hovering by the door and pressed up against the pub windows. "_Who _said that?"

"Aww, c'mon sir, just one more pint," another voice shouted. There were so many people staring at them that John couldn't pinpoint any single baritone.

Lestrade caved. "Doctor?" he said, turning to John.

John politely declined the offer. He had already envisioned making for home and was looking forward to the prospect of climbing into bed. And perhaps coffee … yes, coffee sounded good.

"How are you getting home?" asked Lestrade, ignoring the wolf-whistles his colleagues were now throwing his way to get his attention.

John thought about it for a moment. "Taxi," he proclaimed finally. "I'll get a taxi." A taxi was a good idea. He couldn't walk in this … merry state.

Lestrade laughed. "John, you're drunk." He waved his hand as John opened his mouth to argue the remark. "I'll hail you a cab."

Lestrade's concept of 'hailing a cab' turned out to be stepping directly into the road and thrusting out his warrant card like a determined lolly-pop lady to the nearest approaching vehicle, which fortunately for John _was _a cab. The car screeched to a halt, the driver's head appeared out of the rolled-down window and he immediately declared he '_hadn't dun' nuttin'!_'

"I suspect you have 'done something', but I'm too sozzled to care," Lestrade called back. "See to it that you get my friend safely home," he added, opening the car door and unceremoniously bundling John inside. The Inspector gave John's address to the stunned driver before grasping John's hand in a firm handshake. "Thank you for coming, John."

"Thanks for the invite," replied John, mildly curious as to how he had gotten into a taxi so quickly. "I'm sorry I couldn't persuade Sherlock to come."

Lestrade brushed the apology off casually. "He's a miserable git anyway. I'm not even sure why I asked him along … moment of weakness, I suppose. I knew he wouldn't come."

John had to agree with him there. Any attempts at persuading Sherlock to join him, even to merely wish Lestrade a happy fiftieth [2], had failed; the detective had flat-out refused. "I have no desire to socialise and drink myself into a stupor," was his final say on the matter. John had taken all of this in his stride, called Sherlock an unsociable idiot and left him to his devices.

Lestrade released the doctor's hand and bade him goodnight. He shut the door and lifted his hand in a farewell gesture to John as the taxi pulled away from the kerb.

~o~

Overall, it had been an extremely enjoyable night.

John found that Lestrade, when in a relaxed, care-free environment (rightly so, as it _was_ his birthday), proved to be a brilliant people-person. Despite the fact that John hardly knew his colleagues – only remembering a few names and appearances from past cases he had assisted Sherlock with – the Inspector ensured he was never left standing in a pub corner or sat alone at a table looking into his pint glass.

Yes, it had been a terrific night, and John relayed this information happily to the taxi driver as he pulled up outside 221B.

He stepped – or more, _stumbled_ – out of the cab, unnecessarily tipping the grateful cabbie far more than the adequate amount and announcing cheerfully as he handed the money through the passenger window that he was not drunk.

The driver smiled at him in what John saw through a happy-not-drunk-haze as understanding. "Tell me that when you're sober, mate," he said, bidding John farewell before the window rolled up and the car drove off, along with John's tip. John waved until the rear lights were mere dots in the distance. He continued waving … then it dawned on him he was no longer waving at car brake lights, but stationary traffic lights.

The doctor smiled, overly pleased with himself (he didn't know why … it didn't matter why), and turned to the front door of 221B.

He fumbled to get his key out of his coat pocket, fumbled some more to get it in the door and, when his attempts to open it failed, realised he was standing outside 219. He shrugged and moved over a door.

The brass-plated number revealed 217.

John frowned, spun in a little circle to make sure he had the right street and retraced his steps until he was finally outside 221B. He gave a whispered, "Ha!" of triumph, got the key in the lock first time (as to be expected of one _not_ drunk) and opened the door with a flourish.

He stepped over the threshold, resisted the urge to fling out his arms and declare, "Honey, I'm home!", and padded up the darkened stairwell. His movements were ninja-stealthy so as not to wake … _what's-his-face _… the Unsociable Idiot he lived with. The living room door creaked in protest as he crept inside; no declaration necessary.

John heard the sound of footsteps fast approaching. Before he could locate their source a metallic _clang_ sounded in a far-off place and what felt like a thousand stars exploded behind his eyes.

He wasn't drunk, because a drunk would have collapsed. John hugged the floorboards instead.

~o~

When the doctor woke he was in bed … which made sense; where else was he supposed to be? His head pounded mercifully despite the cool flannel pressed to his brow and the soft pillows beneath. It took him a few moments to notice the figure standing close by.

Sherlock gazed down at him, expression as unreadable as ever.

John hated that. Had he told Sherlock he hated that? Perhaps he should.

"I hate your face," he murmured. He frowned and mentally repeated the words … they sounded a little off. No, he quickly decided, they'd do. He gestured to his own eyes so Sherlock would understand what he meant. "Yep. Your face. Hate it."

Oddly, Sherlock _did_ understand what he meant. He smiled and said, "Very well."

"I'm not drunk," John told him.

"I think not," Sherlock replied in all seriousness. "I suspect any drunken activity has subsided to allow room for the concussion."

"Concussion?" Medical knowledge bloomed like a mental encyclopaedia in John's mind. He shook his head. "No. You only get concussion if you're struck on the … y'know – the …"

"Head, yes." The amusement was evident on Sherlock's features.

John looked at him long and hard. "You hit me on the head, didn't you?"

Sherlock's eyes lowered before answering. "Not intentionally."

"_Sherlock_."

"Fine, yes," the detective amended, "but I did not realise it was you." There was a touch of remorse in his tone.

"Last night?"

"Last night," Sherlock confirmed.

"What with?"

"… A frying pan."

There was a pause. Sherlock returned his gaze.

John shot up to give Sherlock his best concussed-glare; he saw double for a moment, but he managed it. "Oh, well, that's alright then. At least you didn't have a _gun _aimed at my head! Of all the … I trust you have a good reason for trying to cave my head in with a cooking utensil?"

Sherlock brushed off the sarcasm and picked up the flannel that had fallen across John's lap. "As I stated before, I did not intend to hit you. I received several threatening text messages yesterday evening, so had reason to believe an undertaking of revenge may be attempted – it was a trifle case, nothing of concern," he added quickly before John could question this. "The person involved is hardly one to carry out his threats; however I was conducting experiments in the kitchen late last night and I heard someone taking their time sneaking upstairs. I naturally assumed the gentleman was trying his luck, so I grabbed the nearest implement that could knock my potential opponent unconscious." He gave John the briefest of apologetic glances. "In my defence, you informed me you were staying out after your merry escapades, so I did not consider the possibility it was you."

John scoffed. "I did not."

In response Sherlock took his mobile from his shirt pocket and held it out so John could see the text message displayed in sharp clarity on the screen.

'_StaYin' at Lestar, u unsocibubble eediot; bk 2moz … I'm knot drunk – J.'_

Sherlock's eyes glinted mischievously at John's dismayed expression. "I am curious as to where you were planning on staying at Lestrade's."

John sunk back against the pillows and smiled through his defeat. "I was drunk," he conceded.

Sherlock chuckled and returned the flannel to John's forehead. "I know."

~o~

_**End**_

~o~

* * *

_A/N II:_

_[1] A policeman calling 'time' in a pub can signify closing, hence the objections; however in this case Lestrade is referring to wanting to bring his birthday night to a close._ :-)

_[2]_ _Oddly enough, Rupert Graves – who plays Lestrade in the series – turned fifty in June this year … I took a stab in the dark at his age and then looked it up (happy coincidence)._


	4. One Small Step

_A/N: I am aware that John is on the receiving end of these bad-happenings and can only apologise to the good doctor, but … well, I cannot help how the random ideas take form, heh._

_Chapter 04: Those rooftop chases are such dangerous things … a serious-but-funny moment in John's life that is seriously _not_ funny … Dedicated to all the lovely ladies in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen for their kind welcome._

_Sherlock © ACD and BBC_

* * *

**One Small Step**

* * *

John followed the frayed jacket and woolly hat like a determined canine chasing a well-flung ball, the pounding thuds of his shoes hitting concrete interrupted only by the gaps between buildings.

And they weren't little gaps … no. They were wide, yawning pits of darkness which beckoned him each time he drew closer. His success at avoiding them, surprisingly, was credited to their fleeing target. Whenever he jumped; John jumped. The doctor never looked down … though who in their right mind _would_?

So far he was doing swimmingly. It wasn't every day – _night_ – two companions took a evening jog up fire escapes and over rooftops chasing criminals. However in the life of Sherlock Holmes no day was ever the same.

Some distance behind him, Sherlock was shouting words of encouragement which did nothing to lessen John's nerves. He wanted to turn around and tell the detective to _shut the hell up_, but that would mean losing precious oxygen and sight of the frayed jacket which, apparently, belonged to the next potential Olympic long-jump companion.

John's advance on the man was only due to the fact that he had been the first to find him. Perhaps speaking with him on a rooftop had not been the best course of action, but when the guy fitted roofs for a living, well … it didn't take a genius to deduce where he spent most of his time. In hindsight, John _probably_ should have waited until Sherlock had arrived. He regretted his actions now, and made a mental note that the next man he accused of murdering his wife would be a man who worked on the _ground_; at least then when he shot off John had a fair chance of catching him immediately.

Sherlock had joined the doctor mid-pursuit. He was still some ways behind; but that was okay. John had finally caught up with that woolly hat.

He closed the gap; an arm's reach from the man and his abominable jacket. He thrust out his hand, missed the material by a hair's breadth and went plunging down a gap the same instant their quarry vaulted over it. The cry that had managed to escape his throat was abruptly cut like a live sound wire.

Oddly, comically, his first thought was, _I'm flying!_ The revelation was brief, however, and the sickening, churning, undiluted _fear_ that immediately followed was an emotion John never wanted to feel again. He heard Sherlock shouting his name, the voice clear and crystallised as it reflected the terror in his own veins; John closed his eyes so he couldn't see death approaching and prayed and pleaded and _begged_ for a quick, painless end.

As it turns out, John's end wasn't quick ... in fact, John's end wasn't an _end_ at all.

Though it was _painful_. The impact shook his skeletal structure to its very core, and a yell was unceremoniously ripped from his vocal cords as his body collided with … something.

The doctor's next thought, rationally, was, _I'm alive!_ By rights he should be paralysed or broken or _dead_ – but he wasn't. He was _alive_. For one brief, ridiculous moment he mentally catalogued what he was going to do with his life in future that didn't involve rooftops … all those possibilities … going to church being one of them, as praying obviously worked and he had been spared death a second time. _Yes, church_, John considered, dazed; _salvation, God … all things bright and beautiful. _He would also seek out the owner of this wonderful vehicle and embrace him or her for their choice of parking location and this disgusting, dirty, smelly, _beautiful_ mattress.

He had managed to roll over onto his back and was still lying in the lorry's skip when Sherlock found him, his footsteps echoing gloriously familiar on the other side of the metal box of heaven that had saved John's life.

"John."

Sherlock said his name without the terrified edge John had heard so plainly moments before; no doubt he had witnessed the doctor's 'safe' landing and any panic on his part had vanished.

John lifted a hand and rapped his knuckles against the side of the skip. "Here, Sherlock."

"You alright?"

_No, I nearly had a fucking heart attack! … I think I still might have a heart attack._ John shook his head, took a deep, shuddering lung full of air and breathed, "Yes."

There was movement to his right. Sherlock's head appeared over the edge of the skip.

John turned his head, met the detective's gaze. "… Buckley?"

The curls shook briefly. "Gone."

"Go after him."

"No need. I've informed Lestrade … he could do with the exercise."

John exhaled and closed his eyes. "Right … sorry." He had no clue what he was apologising for. Between him being alive and Buckley escaping, he had no reason to doubt Sherlock wouldn't prefer the former.

After a moment Sherlock asked, "Can you move?"

John nodded.

"Can you climb out?"

"Probably … think I may have broken my wrist."

"Angle of the fall, no doubt."

John swallowed the laugh of tightened hysteria threatening to surface. He did not answer. Trust Sherlock to say the most irrelevant, unhelpful, unemotional thought that came to mind. They might as well have been discussing the weather.

There was another pause, then … "John?"

"What?"

"Whilst I appreciate you must be in some pain, you cannot stay in there forever. I suspect whoever owns this vehicle will not want to offload a doctor when it comes to emptying the skip."

John opened his eyes; stared at the detective. "You know … you're utterly _crap_ at showing concern."

Sherlock seemed only mildly surprised at this. "… Okay."

John laughed then; a mixture of shock, hysterical joy and relief washing over him. He sat up slowly, stiff and bruised and battered and _alive_, and extended his good hand to Sherlock. The detective grasped his wrist as John grasped his, and only the tightness of the grip and the slight tremble in Sherlock's fingers indicated to John that he felt anything at all.

~o~

_**End**_

~o~

* * *

_A/N II: I actually checked online to see if there was a skip-lorry company based in London … there is. _:-) _What can I say; I like to do my homework (… though I don't advise jumping off any rooftops trying to locate their vehicle)._


End file.
